


the husky rusty rustle of the tossles of the

by Anonymous



Category: Political RPF - Russian 20th c.
Genre: Based on a Dream, Corn - Freeform, Crack, Dreams and Nightmares, Eighties References, Gen, POV Second Person, Wax Figures, computing history, in which Khrushchev fails to understand smartphones, references to more or less modern Russian music, words for squirrel are apparently sometimes hard for second language speakers, Ддт
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: it's surprisingly difficult to take pictures in your dreams. especially if they involve a certain politician





	the husky rusty rustle of the tossles of the

**Author's Note:**

> ~~Nikita Khrushchev & Corn will (not/probably not/never) be the old/new/real-life Drapple~~

You see before you a picnic table, occupied by major leaders of the Soviet Union. Well, no, technically only the later ones are actually present; Lenin and Stalin are present as poor quality wax figures, not even animatronics as on Red Dwarf, and Wax Stalin seems to have had negative encounters with a candle and a bowl of something that could have been Italian salsa verde but probably not the South American kind. Wax Lenin's eyes are blank and his smile slightly disconcerting, but he is not melted.

Khrushchev and Gorbachev, though, are here in person! It occurs to you that a selfie would be a great way to commemorate this strange and highly unlikely happenstance and you walk up to them and ask if you can take a picture. Mikhail looks slightly grim, while Nikita looks downright glum.

"Can I take a picture?" you ask. Khrushchev ignores you; Gorbachev shrugs and nods. 

You step in behind them and work to get the front-facing camera on your phone in a good position. Gorbachev is giving the camera a reluctant, tired smile. Khrushchev is...not in the frame.

"I--really want both of you in the picture," you admit.

"Okay," says Gorbachev, and studies the picnic table.

You rush over to where the once Soviet Premier is examining a large tree with handsome fungi at its base. "Why would you hold that thing out like that?" Khrushchev asks when he noticed you.

"I wanted to take a selfie," you explain, apparently disregarding the fact that he is unlikely to understand the term.

It seems that when tired and reluctant to interact, he is as distractable by squirrels as some dogs. "Oh. Look. A squiggle. A schwirl. A...how do you call them?" At least he appears near delighted by the woodland wildlife.

"'Squirrel,'" you say, enunciating carefully. "Can I please take a photo of the three of us?"

"You do not have tripod or timer, do you?" And now he seems to think you're being foolish for not bringing the proper equipment.

"It's a smartphone. It has a camera on both sides."

"That, a phone?" He shakes his head and tuts slightly.

"It's like a miniature computer I carry around in my pocket."

"A _computer_! In your pocket! That is no computer. Computers are huge."

"Well. They used to be..." you realize you don't really have an explanation of the microprocessor revolution or whatever people call it sufficient to explain to someone who has no experience with even desktops. This might be harder than introducing it to people who have no concept whatsoever of computers, or think of them as people back before even punch cards and ENIAC.

"Hmmm," he grumbles, looking around at the birds. "I suppose there was talk of computer on spacecraft. But is hard to believe you carry one around in your pocket."

"Anyway, it can take photos, and I'd really like to commemorate the occasion."

"What occasion?"

This is awkward. You aren't sure how to explain that it's a strange occasion to have Soviet premiers (plus wax figures thereof) appear, even if or perhaps because they are figments of your sleeping imagination. "Er, having you as my guest." 

He makes a contemplative noise. "What about ...Mikhail Sergeyvich? What about Brezhnev?" You're not sure that's even the correct patronym and you don't know whether the explanation for this is him pulling one from thin air for unclear reasons or your brain that is doing the imagining here picking one from those rattling around in it.

"Um. I'd like Gorbachev to be in the picture, too, but Brezhnev isn't here."

"Is that a cornfield?" he asks suddenly. "Always fascinating, you Americans with corn." Indeed, he's looking over at a cornfield that you would have sworn wasn't there.

"...would you feel more comfortable in the cornfield?" you ask, a little puzzled by the words coming out of your mouth, but also thinking back to not one but multiple pictures you've seen of him...looking at corn.

"No," he grins "Not IN cornfield. I think... the leaves are probably itchy. But if you would like me to hold corn for photo... I could do that."

And so, you go off to fetch some corn, time moving a little stangely. You don't bother bringing cornstarch or corn syrup or cornmeal, let alone the ethanol in your lawn mower fuel or the ...generic and empty bourbon bottle that wasn't there before. But there is a bag full of ears of sweet corn, a bag of frozen corn, a novelty ear of popcorn, and a can of baby corn that makes you feel surreal in the circumstances. 

Nikita's eyes bug out at the baby corn. "Corn as tiny vegetable?!" he exclaims. 

Again time goes strangely and before you know it you're taking a photo in which Khrushchev is embracing an armful of corn, like some sort of slightly unusual harvest deity and beaming at what he's finally accepted is a camera, while Gorbachev has frozen corn draped over his shoulder and gives a knowing smile, as if it is something of a joke.

Khrushchev then picks up the ear of popcorn and glances at the wax figures of his predecessors. "Edit photo to make it snow corn, like from...explosion?" he suggests impishly, and poses like a propaganda poster, gazing either contemplatively or hungrily at the ear. Gorbachev seems skeptical, reluctant to participate, and to be fair the idea is rather silly.

"We shall have a land of cream and dumplings, but YOU, you will walk out and pick up corn like in the movie theatre!" Khrushchev says, and you snap the photo, which doesn't altogether capture the vision.

"Isn't movie theater popcorn notoriously expensive? And buttery?" Gorbachev asks, and yet this sensible insight sounds sillier than the flight of dreams.

"It would be much nicer than most explosions..." is all the other once-world-leader says, a little regretfully. "Sounds less dangerous than sending people to space." 

"Now..." you say, having contributed two further (and probably with different corn) shots to the genre of photographs, "Can I take that selfie with both of you?"

So finally all the corn is put on the table, and you try to take a selfie again. At least Khrushchev does not flee the camera this time. 

In an astonishing coincidence, the shutter sound is drowned out by three bellies growling simultaneously, which Gorbachev seems to find slightly less dignified of himself than he'd like. 

"Have you ever...eaten corn?" you ask; it suddenly seems important. 

And out of nowhere you suddenly have giant corn snacks that you pass out to the other two, pointedly ignoring the wax figures, and there is a platter of enchiladas with delicious corn tortillas. Somehow, without any noticeable silverware, you eat, and then...

Khrushchev is standing by the stump again, and you snap two candid shots, of him studying the mushrooms, and of Gorbachev looking grimly thoughtful over the remnants of enchiladas. 

"Здравствуйте!" someone says ominously behind you, no matter how someone can give a formal greeting ominously, and you suddenly find that everything except for the damaged and now headless wax figure of Stalin, identifiable from dress and the damage and sauce stains, holding the wax head of Lenin, is motionless, although Khrushchev is frozen holding the frozen corn as if he were Hamlet with a skull.

"Добру день, товарищи!" you say, and somehow are able to spontaneously skateboard out of the reach of wax Stalin-Lenin while making an obscure reference to rebellious rock music. As if your brain wants to play self-referential tricks on you, the tire zeppelin, unusually red, appears low in the sky before you, here far from sporting events where it might usually be relevant, but it is advertising not a rubber magnate but a depreciated pesticide by its full chemical name: dichlorodiphenyl-trichloroethane (split onto two lines on the side of the airship) and the translation of what you just said scrolls on a marquee improbably suspended below its basket: "Good day, comrades!" 

Thankfully that then vanishes, seeming to be obviously a dream, but now you have a room out of an eighties craft book with an unlikely poster (at least that's the only word for it) of Yuri Shevchuk above your headboard.

Despite the vintage decor, you still have your phone and the charger is even around (thank goodness), and you are able to check out the pictures you took without the looming, threatening wax figure behind you. They are still in its memory, not just a dream, but... your blurry thumb is somehow obscuring half of Khrushchev in the armful of corn one, a bright artifact you thought usually came from film handling errors mars your CCD shot of propaganda popcorn snow (right over his face too, like a Harry Potter scar), and somehow, horror of horrors, without ever using Snapchat, you seem to somehow have applied a dog face effect to the candid mushroom shot. Only the selfie and Gorbachev post-enchiladas remain intact, but the selfie remains stubbornly tiny, comically thumbnail sized, and it's not a clear shot of Mikhail anymore, either, it's hazy, blurred, like the Total Eclipse of the Heart video might have been, if you're even remembering it correctly.

"Wake up!" someone says, and then you recoil in half-horror at the fact that someone is cosplaying Marty McFly, but with a Darth Vader helmet, in your bedroom. It would be much nicer to have stayed in the dream of bizarre photographs of Soviet premiers, you think...

**Author's Note:**

> although... the "squirrel" difficulties I'm aware of are German/English(both ways)...
> 
> _Hab' ein luftballon gefund_   
>  _denk' an dich_   
>  _und lass' ihn fliegen..._


End file.
